


Written on Your Face

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Facials, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times where Aramis doesn't pull away fast enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written on Your Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic for JL! It is not the actual day in my timezone but whatever I live life on the edge. In an ideal world, her birthday fic would be gunplay fic... but I couldn't get that finished in time. So in another ideal world, her birthday fic would be the AU in with Porthos is captain. But, again, alas, it could not be finished in time. So third choice: Aramis likes getting come on his face. You know, as one does. 
> 
> Anyway. Yeah. Happy birthday, have some porn.   
> (Considering the subject matter, I am fully aware of just how truly terrible this fic title is.)

**I.**  
For all that Aramis can and will act the suave and debonair – genuinely enjoys being ever the romantic, in these moments his breath is always set on edge – the first time touching someone, the first time falling into their arms and learning every inch of them. Learning what they want. Learning what he can give them. It’s always overwhelming – almost too much. There’s that line to edge against, to determine what it is he can give, what it is he’s allowed to want. 

He is fumbling. He knows he is. He feels like a young man again, hands nothing but bumbly paws, thumbs unable to hook into clothes and tug, fingers fanning out over skin but catching at scars and hanging there. 

At least Porthos seems to be of a similar tragedy – his hands on him are at first far too gentle, then far too grasping – not an unkind gesture but one born from uncertainty of where to place his hands in the first place. Aramis directs them, sets Porthos’ hands – large and warm and gentle – at his waist. Porthos grips there, hangs on tight, as if afraid to move them anywhere else. 

Aramis leans in, kisses him, kisses him again and again – unsure just how far to go, just how far to push, just how much to drag Porthos in with him. They are both so uncertain, but eventually the pressure builds up inside of Aramis and he can’t stop giggling. Porthos’ responding laugh bubbles into his mouth and Aramis swallows them down, sweeps his tongue at his lip, drags his teeth at his mouth. They kiss and they kiss, they fall into each other – and that is better than anything. He can’t stop laughing. He can’t stop drinking in Porthos’ resounding laughter against his teeth. 

They strip each other in a battle of fumbling hands and whispered laughter around their dimpling smiles, lips pressing to each other, breaking apart only long enough to get shirts off over their heads, or to look down and make sure nothing is going to get caught on anything sensitive. When they are both naked, Porthos presses up to Aramis, their skin touching at every possible place. He kisses Aramis, close-mouthed and hard. Aramis thinks that he can let himself fall backwards onto the bed, curl up beneath Porthos, let Porthos’ comforting weight press down against him—

He is delirious with that happiness. He’s flushed, he’s shaking – he wants everything at once, doesn’t know where to start or where to begin. Aramis wants this to be perfect, to be perfect for Porthos – lust and affection. But this is Porthos: they’ve known each other too long and Aramis tries to smolder at him and Porthos just giggles in his face, expression young and boyish and uncertain, but happy. At least they are both uncertain. Porthos reaches for him, touches his cheeks, cups the back of his head and threads into his hair – looks at him like he’s found God, and that’s enough to get Aramis to shudder anew. There’s no need for dreamy when there can be this laughter, at least – there’s no need for perfection when Porthos himself can be his perfection. He voices the thought aloud and Porthos laughs in his face, blushes in a way that Aramis has never seen before. And if Aramis is honest, he’s missed this particular perfection in imperfection.

Porthos sits on the edge of the bed now, his legs spread and Aramis kneeling between them, hands cushioned against his thighs, feeling the shift and shudder of muscles beneath his touch. His head is ducked, mouth around his cock – and Porthos is moaning above him, loud and only slightly self-conscious, as if trying to muffle his sounds, as if trying to not be too loud. Aramis feels himself shuddering with that feeling. Aramis finds himself wanting nothing more than to make him shout, unrestrained. 

And it’s good, it’s so good – he’s wanted this for so long and now the stretch of his lips around a cock, tongue pressing against skin, his jaw twinging with that pleasant ache. He’s wanted this for so long and now he does not have to fear. Now he can have it. 

He’d been prepared, of course – prepared to stomach his pining for the rest of his days, or at least start the long process of seduction. But now the air smells like melon, now there are hands on him, now Porthos grinning down at him with a wide grin. (Hours ago, they’d been pressed up to a side alley’s wall, darkness and shadow, and Aramis had looked at Porthos with soft eyes and whispered, _I want you more than I can even believe._ And Porthos had laughed at first, thought he was joking, and then sobered and said, _So do it._ ) 

He’s looking up at Porthos now, licks at the head of his cock a few times, tongue curling, his hand stroking over him – his hand glides, and Porthos gasps out watching him, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted against moans and gasps of his name, nodding his encouragement. And if ever there was a moment of feeling needed, of feeling worthwhile, it is seeing Porthos bowing into him like this, seeing Porthos taken apart piece by piece because of Aramis’ efforts. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, can’t quite get out the rest of the words he wants to say – everything he could say, a praise and a prayer to him. 

He licks his tongue from base to tip, looking up at him, suckles on the cockhead. He wants so much, so much at once. He holds himself back from it all – doesn’t know what Porthos could want, doesn’t know what Porthos could need. Wanting to give him everything he could want. Not wanting to scare him away with the depth of depravity, the sheer jag of lust twisting up inside of him just watching the way Porthos’ jaw goes slack, his lips parting, his eyelids fluttering. A tease. An invitation. He’s too beautiful. 

“You’re so pretty,” Porthos mumbles, sounds embarrassed to say it out loud – looks at him to make sure. Aramis preens under the praise, his mouth broad and open as he sucks him down. He lets his moan draw out, longer than strictly necessary, looking up at Porthos through his eyelashes. That’s enough to make Porthos break into a soppy little smile, nodding his head, ducking down closer towards him and gripping his hair. “You’re _so_ pretty.”

Aramis keens again, suckles at his cock, swallows him down with as much enthusiasm as he can muster – his jaw aches, his knees protest the position, but he doesn’t _care_. 

They could go on like this forever. Porthos starts moving faster. Aramis whines out and suckles around him, sweeps his tongue, tucks his lips forward to get more of him – to swallow him down as much as he’s able. Maybe if he can do this again, maybe if he works at it, he can swallow down all of Porthos – feel his nose press up to his belly, feel his cock deep inside of him while Porthos shakes apart above him. Later, perhaps. Later, if Porthos will let him. Later, if he can have a second time with Porthos.

For now, though, Porthos gasps out a small breath. Porthos’ hips shift, shudder forward, and before he can gasp out some kind of warning, he’s coming. He jerks back, tries to pull back but Aramis whines and follows after him. It takes Porthos by surprise. It takes Aramis by surprise when the come hits his cheek. He closes his eyes before he can get any of it in his eye and the breath leaves him completely. He’s going to come just from this, he can feel himself straining for it – he hasn’t even touched himself. 

“Shit,” he hears Porthos whisper above him. He doesn’t open his eyes, just breathes out and tilts his head. “Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry—”

Porthos’ hands touch his cheeks – big and warm, callused but gentle. His thumb brushes over his eyelid, clearing away a long rope of come there. He steadily cleans him off and Aramis lets out a little whimper – of longing, of desire. Fuck. 

He shouldn’t start giggling again, and yet he is – deliriously so. His knees ache and there’s come on his face, and he’s so _happy_ , it’s almost crippling. He wants to do that again. He wants it so badly – and he doesn’t know how to say it. 

Aramis opens his eyes again to look up at him. Porthos, at least, starts to laugh, too – flushed and embarrassed, but grinning at him in that lopsided, dimpling way of his. 

“Sorry,” Porthos whispers out again. 

“Took you by surprise, huh?” Aramis asks, with more bravado than truly felt for the sake of covering up just _how_ turned on he is. Just how desperately he wants Porthos to come on him again.

Porthos grins at him. He answers, utterly unashamed now, “Yeah.”

Aramis turns his head, leans into the touch and kisses at Porthos’ fingertips, licks away the come with a fevered blush. Porthos laughs, breathless, and presses his thumb to his mouth. 

“Get up here, you fool.”

Aramis scrambles up into his lap. Porthos’ hand curls around his cock and, shamefully, it takes only one squeeze of Porthos’ hand, one swift stroke, before Aramis is coming with a shudder, rocking up into Porthos’ hand. He collapses into his lap, a puddle of shuddering pleasure. Porthos holds him easily. 

He looks embarrassed, though. Aramis leans in and kisses him hard. 

“You came on my face,” Aramis mumbles into the kiss. Nearly manages to ask for it again—

But Porthos bubbles out a small little laugh, and then just cracks up – biting at his lip and blushing up to his ears. He mumbles out another apology and Aramis soon becomes too distracted to truly ask, instead focusing on cuddling into Porthos’ hold.

 

**II.**  
Aramis sucks Porthos off while Porthos is leaning back against the wall, trousers slumped low at his thighs and Aramis running his hands over his hips and gripping tight. He’s not saying it’s the best decision – they’d hardly made it to the room, really, and they have places to be and Aramis is not quiet in his enthusiasm, moaning and sucking and slurping and lapping at his cock with his tongue and lips and mouth – needing and wanting more, always needing and wanting more. Now that he can have him, he cannot get enough. And it’s worth it, oh god it’s so worth it when he can get an earful of Porthos’ loud, breathless moans as he ducks down over him, curls his mouth tight around his cock and suckles. He shoves Porthos’ pants down over his thighs and sucks his cock in to the root, not seeming to care that it makes him almost choke, that his nostrils flare and his mouth slacks open. 

It’s worth it, it’s so worth it, to touch and taste and feel him – and Porthos’ fingers weave into his hair and hold him close and tight and _God_ , that’s more than enough. He’s not saying it’s all the best decision, but then Aramis never did make good decisions – and this, _this_ is a necessary decision, this is something he needs. He needs to hear those moans, tight and low, needs to feel the way Porthos shudders under his eager hands, his eager mouth. He needs to move and moan and shift closer to Porthos on his aching needs, summation and prayer and salvation and absolution all in one, the cock thick on his tongue. He begs at Porthos’ feet, a sinner finding his absolution. He lays worship to that cock. He lays worship to him. 

He’s never going to think that Porthos is a bad decision. Never. He never could. 

“Aramis,” Porthos moans out, a breathy little gasp and Aramis looks up to see the way Porthos bites down at his lip, face twisted up in his pleasure – and there is nothing more beautiful than this, nothing that Aramis can remember loving more than this feeling. Porthos rocks his hips forward, presses his cock deep into his mouth, and it’s good, it’s so good and he’ll never grow tired of this, couldn’t grow tired of it even if he wanted to. 

Aramis hums out, makes it messy, doesn’t care that he’s leaving sloppy kisses down the length of his cock, suckles at the head, gets spit down his chin and wipes it away once before focusing on slicking his hand over his cock, stroking him off, licking at the head and dragging his lips along the length of him, suckling at the base, pillowing his lips up as he works himself over this cock, gives him little licks and longer licks, gets him whining and bucking into his mouth. Demanding more. He deserves it – he deserves this and more, he’d give Porthos the world if he could. For now, all he can give him is this, his mouth and his tongue and his hand, his aching knees on the floor, the shuffling closer and closer still, crowding him up to the wall. 

He’s running his hands over Porthos now, cups his hips, cups his balls, cups his thighs. He’ll never get tired of touching. He laves his tongue over the sensitive skin of his balls, sucks at the underside of his cock, curls around him and bobs his head down, swallows him down, slowly and slowly and further and further. He wants it all. He wants Porthos down his throat, wants Porthos moaning out above him, wants Porthos thrusting and demanding, wants him to tug sharp on his hair, touch at his temples, slide over his cheeks, wants him to feel the way his cheeks distend around the bulk of his cock, the way he swallows around him, suckles, moans out and shudders in pleasure, gasps around the bulk of his cock and salt of his sweat. 

Porthos drags his hand through his hair, and does tug a little. Aramis moans out weakly, scrambles closer, draws back enough to lap at his cock and look up at him and whisper out, “Porthos…”

Porthos grins at him, sloppy and boyish and devastatingly handsome, and he traces over Aramis’ cheek, slides his fingers over his lips and cups his chin, guiding him back to his cock – and Aramis makes a pleased, helpless little sound, guttural and demanding. Porthos ruts into his mouth this time – and Aramis lets him, opens his mouth wide and just lets him move, willing and able, moaning out as the color rises over his cheeks. He is greedy for it. He is begging for it. He grips at Porthos’ thighs, nails digging crescents into his skin. 

Porthos tries to speak, ducks his head, breathes out as Aramis mouths over his cock. “Shit,” he whispers, holds tight to Aramis’ hair and tugs – tries to pull him back. “I’m close. Hey—”

Aramis whimpers out, lingers, knows he’s lingering – knows he should pull back, knows he should listen, knows he should do something that doesn’t reveal the level of his depravity, just how desperately he wants to taste at Porthos, mouth at him, swallow around him. He sucks around him, drags his mouth down lower instead of pulling back, swallowing around him. 

Porthos groans, tips his head back – Aramis can feel the soft thud as his head hits the door, and it makes Aramis shudder to think he could be the cause of such pleasure, be a reason that Porthos might lose all senses. Porthos thrusts up hard against him, tries to tug him back again, and Aramis refuses to move. 

Aramis glances up at him. He looks undone, blissed out, like he can’t get enough of it – guides Aramis back to his cock, guides him down to swallow around him, and Aramis groans and stretches his mouth, jaw sore and lips a little numb. And Aramis lets him, whines for it, lets Porthos hold his head and fuck into his mouth. Lets Porthos own him like this. 

He feels Porthos coming, and it’s only then that he draws back. Porthos’ come hits him at his upper lip. He moans out helplessly, closes his eyes and turns his head so that Porthos’ cock slides against his cheek, the come smearing there. He cups Porthos’ hips and stays close, licking helplessly at his cock as Porthos moans out – pleasure and embarrassment. Aramis opens his mouth and curls around his cockhead, suckles down the last of his release. He feels too warm, too sticky – he loves it.

His jaw aches and his throat feels raw and too tight, but he doesn’t care. He presses a kiss to Porthos’ heaving stomach as Porthos regains some control, grabs at his hair to fist it away from his face, to keep it from getting caught up at the come on his cheek. Aramis looks up at him, and Porthos is blushing, not looking at him. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, embarrassed, and Aramis makes a mournful little sound, reaches up for him. He slides his hands over his stomach, up his chest beneath his shirt. Porthos shifts, falls down so that he’s sitting on the floor in front of Aramis. He folds his shirt sleeve down over his hand so he can reach out, wiping carefully at Aramis’ face. Aramis is flushed, breathless, mouth parted slightly at the feeling of Porthos’ hands on him. He bites at his tongue to keep from telling him to lick it off. He can’t – he shouldn’t want this as much as he does – he shouldn’t be dragging Porthos down into that level of depravity. Not now. Not when he’s finally gotten the chance to be with him. 

Aramis crawls into his space and kisses him, licks into his mouth. Porthos sighs out, swipes his thumb over his cheek, and hums quietly as he kisses him back. His free hand moves down to cup Aramis through his clothes, squeezing at his cock so that Aramis lets out a low, pleased whine. 

“I didn’t get it in your eye, did I?” Porthos asks when they draw apart and Aramis settles into Porthos’ lap, bracketing his thighs with his own and unhooking one of his many belts. Porthos’ hands settle at his back, heavy and warm. 

Aramis shakes his head, blushing up to his ears and hating that he does. “It’s – quite alright. It’s fine.” 

“Are you sure?” he asks, quiet. 

“Porthos,” Aramis sighs out. “I think you should just get your hands on me already.” 

That does get him to chuckle, at least, deep and low and thick and that’s enough to nearly send Aramis coming without even being touched. He makes a low-pitched sound and looks at Porthos – who’s looking back at him fondly, blushing high on his cheeks in a way that’s utterly endearing. 

The flood of warmth Aramis feels should probably be alarming. The strength of it and the force of it almost too much – but Aramis has never been a cautious man. This isn’t the best of ideas, and yet here he is all the same. His body aches, but in that low and pleasant way he loves. He wants Porthos to come again. He wants Porthos to come again on him, again and again, until he’s covered. 

Porthos nuzzles at his jaw, kisses up to his ear and bites at his earlobe. Aramis closes his eyes and sighs out, melts into his hold. Porthos helps undress him enough to get his hand around his cock and that quite effectively ceases all thought from either of them. 

 

**III.**  
Aramis studies Porthos’ face in the firelight. The others are asleep, have been for hours – really, Aramis should be letting Porthos get some sleep, but they’ve taken to doing their watches together. They aren’t too far from Paris now. Another day’s ride. 

Porthos looks soft and warm in the light, not the least bit tired. He been occupying his hands by threading long strips of grass together into a pleat, braided up against his fingertips. Aramis always liked that about Porthos – his hands so large and thick, and yet gentle in doing the delicate work. If only his stitching could be as refined. 

“What is it?” Porthos asks, quietly, because he can feel Aramis’ eyes on him – looks up and offers him a small smile that flickers in the firelight. Aramis shifts closer instead of answering, lifts his hand to brush his palm across his cheek, thumb touching at the bottom line of the scar there. 

Porthos sinks into the touch, his expression softening. He’s so handsome. Aramis wants so much, too much at once – he knows he does. He knows it is a fault. He wants and he wants and he can never stop wanting – and it is such a dangerous thing, to desire as deeply as he does. It is so easy to have it fragment and break apart. It is so easy to lose it all. 

“You’re so handsome,” Aramis outright coos, knows that he must look as soppy as he feels – he has no reason for the feeling, no sense of connection at what could have ignited his thoughts like this. No reason beyond the fact that he is here with Porthos, that he would do anything to be open and free with him. If only he could be. He’d give Porthos the world. He is in far too deep. He—

The side of Porthos’ mouth twitches and then twists up into a light smile, crooked and uneven, but charming. He leans into Aramis’ touch, turns his head, kisses his palm lightly. Aramis watches the way Porthos closes his eyes, the way his eyelashes droop down, fan out at his cheeks, the way his face dimples in happiness. So simple. He thinks that Porthos must hate hiding, too. He must. 

But then, it’s because it is a danger that Aramis pushes forward, slides into Porthos’ space, and kisses him – light at first, chaste and gentle. Porthos makes a soft hum, kisses him back, but does draw away. His hand lifts, dropping the braided grass strands in favor of curling around his wrist.

“Hey…” he says, and affection colors his voice. That more than anything is enough to get Aramis to shiver. 

“You should kiss me more,” Aramis tells him, matter-of-fact and attempting to muffle the ridiculous smile he’s likely sending his way – his cheeks ache with it. 

“Oh yeah?” Porthos laughs, voice soft and graveled out – his expression so distinctly fond that Aramis can’t help but make a pleased sound as he leans in closer, shrugging one shoulder. He tilts his chin down and looks up at him through his lashes, his eyes dark, tilts his head. 

Porthos hums out and leans in, his kiss gentled and leisurely, chaste and light – cautious, out in the open like this, even with the whispered breaths of their sleeping companions, and the relative silence of the night. It has been a quiet mission. The need for a night-watch has hardly seemed necessary, and yet there is a thrill of danger to be lighted against the fire like this, to feel the soft ease of Porthos’ mouth to his. But Aramis feels warmed from the inside out, and he quickly melts against him, drops his arms over his shoulders so he can wrap them up, slide his fingers into his hair and knead encouraging circles into the back of his neck, trying to draw him in closer and kiss him and kiss him and kissing him until his mouth is swollen and tender.

Aramis can’t hold back the small whine that floats up against the back of his teeth, and it’s sucked from his mouth by all of Porthos’ kisses, mouth slanted against his, teeth grazing against his lower lip. Slowly, but surely, the kiss grows more heated, grows more precise in its course, drawing out Aramis’ sighs and little noises of pleasure, fingernails digging into the back of Porthos’ neck, hanging off of him, anchoring himself to him. 

Slowly, though, Porthos does draw back from him. Aramis holds at him, whines out low in his throat, tries to follow him. Porthos chuckles, his smile low in the dim light of the fire. He touches Aramis’ cheek, fans his thumb over his cheek bone. 

“I’m supposed to be keeping watch. You should be sleeping.” 

It’s frankly ridiculous – and a little endearing – that Porthos thinks Aramis can sleep after this. Desire thrums in his veins, makes him feel warmer than the fire ever could. He touches at Porthos’ face, lets his fingers drag down his neck and over his chest, leaning into his space. 

He tilts his head, nodding towards the line of trees surrounding them. “Or… you could give me a reason to feel tired?” 

Porthos scoffs, loud, and then quiets when the sudden sound makes d’Artagnan murmur in his sleep and shift, curling into himself beneath his blanket. 

He gives Aramis an indulgent, if disbelieving look. Aramis shrugs. 

“Aramis…” he says, in that way that’s a sigh, that means he doesn’t want to admit he’s interested, in that way that means he isn’t sure if Aramis is serious or not. Aramis shivers all over, holds his breath – waits, then, for the moment when Porthos decides that Aramis is too filthy, too much at once. He wants, so desperately, to be liked. He wants so desperately for Porthos to like him. 

Porthos casts one more glance towards d’Artagnan and Athos. Then he looks back at Aramis. Aramis gives him a small, hopeful smile – lets himself hope. And Porthos huffs out a breath, heaves to his feet, and tugs Aramis to his feet.

“Better make it quick, then,” he says, canting his head towards the trees. 

Aramis nearly trips over himself in an effort to get over there – and Porthos does stumble, muffles his laugh into his shoulder, lets Aramis manhandle him enough to push him back up against a tree and lean in to kiss him. The kiss turns hot and messy, determined. Aramis isn’t complaining. In fact, he’s doing the opposite of complaining – he’s sighing out happily, making soft sounds between each kiss, an effort to keep his voice down. Porthos’ hands are heavy on him and this is dangerous, but it is something that Aramis needs. 

It is a simple matter to break the kiss and drop down into a crouch in front of Porthos, opening up his belt and coat and tugging down at his trousers. “Quick, he says,” he murmurs, kissing at Porthos’ stomach. “You know I love taking my time with you.” 

He’s kneeling in front of Porthos like this, pushes his shirt up, kisses over his stomach and biting in teasing little nips. He waits for Porthos to sigh above him, to relax a little, and then he gets his hand around Porthos’ cock and squeezing it, stroking it from its half-hard state into full mast, feeling it swell beneath his fingertips. 

“Aramis,” Porthos sighs out, his voice purposefully pitched low, trying to be quiet. He doesn’t move and Aramis takes that for the challenge it is. He looks up at Porthos and presses a sloppy kiss to the line of skin just above his cock, and Porthos bites at his lip. He’s trying so much to be quiet.

And then Aramis sinks his mouth down onto his cock, sucks the cock deep into his mouth and swallows around him. Porthos bites back a shout, ducking his head to press against his shoulder with huffing breath, shuddering. 

Aramis slides his mouth down over him, makes it sloppy and obscene, bobs his head forward and swallows down around his cock. And Porthos gasps and groans into his shoulder, thrusts his hips forward to meet his mouth. Aramis’ mouth and tongue and lips all pillow over him, slide down over him. He nuzzles, he gasps, he shifts closer open-mouthed and willing, needing to touch him, needing to taste him. He mouths filthy kisses against the head of his cock and works down, then leans back to swallow around him. He slides forward onto his knees properly, plants his hands at Porthos’ hips to help guide his thrusts, lets Porthos buck into his mouth. He could do this forever. He could do this forever if only he could. He’s already close, he can tell that Porthos is already so close to coming and this time, this time he’ll have it all. Porthos moans out, hands fanning into his hair, holding him. 

Soon, though, too soon, and Porthos is tugging on his hair in warning, manages to gasp out his name. “Hey,” he moans out. “Hey, I’m gonna—”

He tries to draw him back but Aramis stays close, stubborn, licks and sucks at him and coaxes Porthos over the edge with a low groan, rocking his hips forward. The come hits his cheek, slides down against his lip, and Aramis licks it up, licks at Porthos’ cockhead as he strokes him off, shivers from the feeling of warm come on his face against the night air. 

Porthos heaves out a shaky breath and Aramis closes his eyes, gasps out a pleased sigh at the feeling of it. Porthos’ hands reach to his face, to wipe it away, but Aramis ducks his head in favor of placing sloppy kisses over Porthos’ spent cock. 

But then Porthos’ voice wobbles above him, quiet and uncertain, “You – you really need to pull away sooner.” 

It’s that same apologetic way of his, embarrassed as if he’s done something wrong – and Aramis flushes, sputters a little, squeezes his cock and looks up at him. Porthos stares at him for a moment, possibly studies him carefully – the look in his eye, the way his lips are parted, the come on his face. 

“… Oh,” he says, and that’s somehow more damning than anything else. Aramis blushes up to his ears and looks away, flustered as he wipes at his face carefully, wants to lick the come off his fingertips, wants to suck them deep into his mouth, wants to be fucked hard into the ground and get covered in Porthos, filled up with Porthos – so he can feel him even hours later. He wants it all. 

Porthos sinks down in front of him, tucks himself back into his clothes and then reaches for Aramis. Aramis says nothing, the embarrassed one now – and how strange to be embarrassed, when he is usually so utterly shameless, but he needs this, he needs Porthos, he needs for Porthos to like him, to still want to be with him, and—

Porthos takes up his hand and licks a stripe with his tongue, palm up to fingertips. Tastes himself on Aramis’ hand. 

Aramis’ jaw goes slack, already ached from being stretched around Porthos’ cock, and he _moans_. 

Porthos is quiet for a moment, then leans in and kisses Aramis’ temple – devastatingly tender. Aramis closes his eyes, breath stuttering out of him.

“You like this?” Porthos asks, quiet – uncertain, treading carefully.

Aramis keeps his eyes shut as he nods his head. He breathes out when Porthos kisses him, lips soft against his. He licks into his mouth, whimpers, and curls his arms around his neck to keep him close – he’s clinging, if he’s utterly honest with himself. Porthos shushes him gently, cradles him in close and just kisses him for a long moment. 

“Sorry,” Aramis whispers once they draw back, isn’t entirely sure why he’s apologizing. 

Porthos chuckles, looks embarrassed, but leans in and presses their foreheads together. “You should have said something, you idiot. All this time I thought I was fucking it up.” 

Aramis laughs, a bubbling, hysterical thing. “No,” he whispers, drags a hand over Porthos’ cheek. “God, no. You’re perfect.” 

“Save that for after I get you off,” Porthos laughs, grinning at him sheepishly – and then pushes Aramis down onto the damp, mossy ground and tugs his pants down so he can get his mouth on him.

 

**IV.**  
“You don’t have to be embarrassed about it,” Porthos tells him gently from where he’s straddling Aramis’ chest, hands braced against the headboard. Aramis has his hand around his cock, trying to coax him up closer so he can fuck his face. He’s also blushing and a little incapable of speaking straight away.

“I’m not,” Aramis insists, because it isn’t so simple. He strokes Porthos’ cock in an effort to distract him, smiling a little when Porthos ducks his head with a pleased little moan, eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks in that way Aramis loves. 

“Then what?” Porthos asks, wriggling his hips forward to rock into Aramis’ touch. 

It’s been a few days since the forest, and they haven’t really spoken about it – so of course Porthos, straight-forward and lovely as he is, would bring it up just when Aramis starts to think that maybe Porthos will just fuck him and not speak of it. He really should have known. 

“I do very unholy things,” Aramis admits, slowly, “It’s not just – being with men. I love – this.” 

He squeezes his cock, thinks of all the unsavory, depraved things he would do to Porthos if he didn’t think it would scare him off – choke on his cock, covered in his come, fuck him over and over until he can’t move. Just the thought of it makes him flush, squirming beneath Porthos.

Porthos drops a hand, soothes it over Aramis’ chest, strokes his fingertips over his chest and shoulder. Aramis closes his eyes, arches up. 

“Yeah, and?” Porthos asks. “You know where I come from. You’re not likely to shock me.” 

Aramis chuckles, and shakes his head. “It’s only—”

He knows he is not a moral man. Not by how the church would view it. He has made his peace with God and his purpose, he knows that he is a religious man, but he is not a righteous man. He ducks his head forward, coaxes Porthos forward and licks at the head of his cock. Porthos sighs out above him – and that sigh is a greater song than any hymn he could ever hear. The sound of Porthos’ moans the only psalms he might ever cherish. He sighs in turn. 

“Aramis,” Porthos says, cups the back of his head and guides him forward, slips his cock into his mouth. He looks down at him as he rolls his hips, strokes into his mouth. Aramis moans out around the cock in his mouth, heavy on his tongue. Porthos sighs out, tips his head. “I don’t give a damn if you like some strange things.”

Aramis whimpers out around the cock, tries to draw back to speak. But Porthos cups the back of his head, keeps him steady, strokes into his mouth. His free hand brushes the hair back from his face. 

“So. You want me to come on your face?” he asks, calm, a blush on his cheeks. 

Aramis moans out weakly and manages a small nod. He strokes his tongue along the underside of his cock, tries to coax Porthos to rock harder and deeper into his mouth. 

Porthos gives him a lopsided grin. “Then that’s what I’m gonna do.”

And it’s good – it’s so good. Porthos guides him along, rocks hard into his mouth and Aramis does his best to swallow down around him, scrambles to get his hands on Porthos – strokes all over him as he groans out, sinking down beneath Porthos and just letting Porthos rut, trusting Porthos to take care of him. And it’s good.

When Porthos draws back and away, Aramis lets him, mouth open and slack, looking up at him so he can watch Porthos come, closing his eyes only when he feels the splash of it against his face. With direction now, it hits him fully, Porthos moving above him to make sure it covers him – and Aramis shudders, touches a hand to his cock, and comes before Porthos can ever lay a hand on him. 

He is a boneless, heaving mess beneath him once Porthos comes down from his orgasm, and Aramis gasps out breaths, shuddering beneath him. Porthos moves, shifts, stretches out over him and kisses and licks the come from his face – their trading kisses sloppy and desperate. Porthos’ thumb brushes over his eyelid to drag away come there so Aramis can open his eyes to Porthos’ grinning face.

“So,” Porthos says, flushed and pleased and cuddling up to him, “what else do you like?” 

 

**V.**  
Weeks later, months later, and they’ve coaxed from one another the things they both like – immoral and dirty and filthy and Aramis _loves_ it. If there is absolution to be found, better to find it in the taste of Porthos’ come on his tongue, in the shape of his mouth against his collarbone, the drag of his nails over his ribs. This is bliss. This is happiness. He has never felt this way before, and it is overwhelming. 

“I love you,” Aramis says, and isn’t it appropriate that he should tell Porthos this now – now, when he’s on his knees, when he’s worshipping him with mouth and breath, his eyes bright as he looks up at Porthos.

Porthos laughs, a bubbling, nervous little sound – and Aramis’ heart lodges in his throat for one moment before the anxiety disappears just as quickly, because Porthos’ face splits into a wide, boyish grin. 

“Really?” Porthos asks, and then shakes his head and laughs, ducking his head. “No, wait. Sorry. Yeah. Yeah, I love you, too.” 

Aramis grins up at him – delirious for a moment. Porthos laughs, pleased and embarrassed, opening his legs wider for Aramis to squirm his way in closer, kissing up Porthos’ chest and then leaning up to kiss him properly. Porthos hums out and cups his face, kissing him back again and again. They spend a frankly embarrassing amount of time dedicated to swapping endearments to one another between kisses until they are both too busy grinning to kiss properly. 

And it’s good. It’s so good. It’s everything that Aramis could have wanted – held down and rocked into, Porthos’ lips on his neck and jaw, kissing him. It’s good – it’s good to be on his knees with his mouth open as Porthos thrusts into him, better still when he draws back in time to press cockhead to his cheek, to stroke himself off before him, Aramis’ hands scrambling over Porthos’ hips to keep him close. 

It’s good. It’s everything he could have wanted – laid bare, laid exposed, always grasping for more. It’s enough. Porthos, kind and gentle and loving, who always gives him what he wants, what he needs. Porthos, always coming down to his knees afterwards to cup his face and kiss him until he sighs out and melts into his hold. It’s good.

**Author's Note:**

> You can reach me on my tumblr, [here](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), as always.


End file.
